All the King's Men 8
All the King's Men 8 is an encounter in Orange Eyes. Enemies *Royal Commander (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP Normal) *Royal War Wizard (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP Normal) Transcript Introduction "One of his champions was an oroc. She was as tall as the biggest Frost Wyrms, and they say she was twice as strong as a berserker." Kara hesitates, as though groping for further nuggets of information to set before them. "She carried a steel sword." "Steel?" Crenus muses. "I've never heard of an oroc using metal weapons before." "She challenged one of the commanders, the man with an eye-patch, to a duel -- right in the middle of the battle." "Sir Eumorius..." The king knows him well. He performed Eumorius' knighthood ceremony, and later bestowed him with an award for valor. A superb warrior, ferocious and skilled in equal measure. Only the man's headstrong nature, sometimes bordering on recklessness, kept him from a generalship. It takes little imagination to envision him accepting a challenge even on the battlefield. Conclusion The Nords love a good duel. They were raised on sagas, works of prose and poetry filled with single-combats both glorious and tragic. None of them think of intervening when Rakshara and the commander clash. As for the royal troops, fear of the oroc might keep some at bay. Others are quelled by the commander's bark. "Back!" His eyes are on his orange foe but his meaning is understood. Thus the fighting rages around the little space of snow where heroes or fools do battle, none trespassing into its sacred confines. You honor it along with the rest, and engage the commander's minions. You see only little snatches of the combat, glimpses stolen over an enemy's shoulder or else in the seconds of respite when one foe falls and you have yet to engage or be engaged by another. The one-eyed commander is impressive. He swings a sword in each hand, weaving their attacks and parries together with effortless dexterity -- the kind of fluidity which few could match, no matter how long they trained. The weapons are enchanted. That becomes clear the moment he blocks Rakshara's blade, catching and resisting it straight-on instead of trying to deflect it. His arm doesn't even tremble beneath the oroc's might. The swords' enchantments are counteracting the force of the impact... Another adversary intervenes, annexing your attention. He lies dead on the snow a few seconds later, slain in the first exchange of blows. Rakshara has a long cut across her left cheek now. It shimmers like a necklace in the sunlight. The commander must have struck quickly to slip his sword past her shield. His left sword flashes, offering confirmation of his speed. Rogar's Dream moves to intercept it. But the commander's blade doesn't deviate an inch. It doesn't even tremble. Only a deft movement of her lithe body causes it to dance across the top of her shoulder, scoring another glittering cut instead of a grievous injury. You wince, feeling the wound as though it were your own. A soldier lunges at you from the side. You blast him without looking round, putting a bolt of arcane energy into his chest -- unwilling to turn away from the duel for the slightest second now. If the oroc is perturbed by the commander's quickness, by the infuriating magic of his weapons, it doesn't show on her face. Her expression of martial determination doesn't waver. There's no fear, no disquiet, no frustration. There's only Rakshara. And Rakshara knows all the steps to the war god's dance. She darts backwards. A swift, sure fighter's shuffle that scars the compacted snow underfoot. The commander moves to fill the space and strike, before she can recover or flee. But she isn't planning on doing either. Instead she dives, throwing her body into a low tackle. His eldritch blades can block her might and momentum. His legs cannot. He topples backwards as they're taken out from under him, his balance destroyed so utterly that he can't muster a counterattack. For the moment he can only fall. And a single moment is all Rakshara needs. Rogar's Dream flashes twice, opening both his femoral arteries. The commander drops his right sword. He uses the free hand to salute her as he dies. Category:Orange Eyes